


I'll Follow You Into The Dark

by AdurnaSkulblaka



Series: You [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s05e04 The End, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 15:39:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdurnaSkulblaka/pseuds/AdurnaSkulblaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Love of mine, some day you will die<br/>But I'll be close behind<br/>I'll follow you into the dark<br/>No blinding light or tunnels to gates of white<br/>Just our hands clasped so tight<br/>Waiting for the hint of a spark)</p><p>Despite everything that has come between them, Castiel still loves Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Follow You Into The Dark

You acknowledge that you’ve come pretty damn far. You know that if your past self were to look upon you now, he’d be disgusted. After all, for someone who was once an angel, you really have fallen from grace… and then into booze, sex and drugs.  


You remember the first time you tasted alcohol with affection, but not for the nostalgia of learning the tang of it. Instead, it’s for your naivety; the fact you even thought that you could get properly drunk while still boosted on angelic powers is laughable. Now, of course, it’s difficult, because you’ve consumed so much that you’ve built up your tolerance to make even Dean look at you with new respect.  


It was what you turned to as soon as it became apparent that things weren’t going to work out. After the loss of your Grace, the start of the apocalypse, and Dean burrowing into himself after Sam said ‘yes’ to Lucifer, you knew that you might as well try to keep everything fuzzy as much as possible. That way, you couldn't feel.  


Even now, during one of the gaps where you actually have your head properly on your shoulders, you can still lay out your reasoning behind it all.  


It helps to numb the ache in your back, just between your shoulder blades, where the phantom pain of having your wings ripped from their sockets still lingers. Sometimes, it hits you so hard that it leaves you winded, and you can hardly reach for a bottle or a needle quick enough.  


There’s also the matter of Dean. It _hurts_ to see him like he is. You easily recall the man from before, the one who could crack a smile or a joke. Now, he’s nothing but a shell. No matter how hard you’ve tried to bring him back – through the offers of friendship, loyalty, and even more affection than you knew you were capable of giving to someone other than God – none of it was enough.  


He’s just a shell. You can’t stand to see it, so you try to make your vision a little off so you don’t have to.  


And all these things that you bury yourself in, they’re just distractions. You know it, but it doesn’t make them any less appealing.  


Sprawled on your admittedly pathetic excuse for a bed, the thin blanket tangled around your naked waist, you push yourself up on your elbows and let your chin rest on your chest. You can hear the sounds of life in the camp outside, but they don’t motivate you. They used to, but they don’t now. The only thing that can make you get up is either the promise of more supplies or Dean.  


Even now, even when you know he doesn’t return your fondness (except from when he abuses that love to get sex, but then again, it’s not like you’re very picky these days), you still can’t help but follow him. It’s second nature to you now. One of your desires used to be to keep him and Sam safe, and when you failed at the latter, you fuelled all of your attention onto Dean. That didn’t work either. But if he asked, you would still follow him into the abyss, to the deepest recesses of Hell, to death and beyond.  


You don’t remember that something’s missing until you sit up properly. There aren’t any empty bottles - plastic or glass - and there’s no item of misplaced clothing that isn’t yours. Your cabin is messy, but not the kind of messy that means something happened last night that you were too high or too pissed to remember.  


Besides, you _do_ remember last night. You’d turned down your three favoured escapes, as the anniversary of your last day as an angel had been upon you yet again. You don’t know when the tradition came about, but staying completely free of all influences is something you just _do_ on that day. It would make sense for the opposite to be true, you suppose, but things are they way they are.  


You accepted that long ago.  


The lack of your usual vices is unnerving, even though it was your choice. You throw the scraggly cover back, unbothered by your nakedness, and stumble over to the box in the corner that passes for a dresser for your clothes. Like the blanket, you only have items of clothing that are thin and hang off of your frame.  


_“The hell you wearin’ that for, Cas? You’ll freeze.”_  


_“I find other clothing confining.”_

Even as you pull on your trousers you can feel the desire for _something_ making your skin itch. Drink or pill, either will do, but you know you don’t have any to hand; in an effort to make sure you stayed clean for the day, you’d used up the last of what you had. It was stupid of you to do that, as there’s no guarantee there will be any more. Everything is a limited supply. You pull your shirt on, your motions a little jerky because of your irritation with yourself.  


For the first time in a long time, you brush aside your bead curtain and push the door open without wincing as much as you usually do at the sun’s light. That thought is almost as unnerving as the lack of drugs in your cabin.  


You have no idea how you’re going to get hold of what you need. It won’t be put on the list for people to find while out on missions; time and resources are precious, so they won’t waste it on you. Maybe Dean might have before, but he certainly won’t now.  


The idea of going through withdrawal sets you on edge. You grit your teeth, genuinely frightened. You can already feel the loss keenly, sharp through your clear mind.  


You don’t like it. Not one bit.  


_”Drugs? Never took you for a stoner.”_  


_“Life makes fools of us all, Dean. Apparently I drew the short straw. This is the hand I was dealt. Do you see me complaining?”_

You allow yourself a moment as you stand in the doorway to mourn the loss of your friend again. Maybe you could get through this if you could curl up next to him, or if he’d pull you close and whisper “You can do it, Cas” with the conviction you know he used to have. He used to _believe_ in you, almost like you used to believe in God.  


A short bark of humourless laughter leaves your lips. You can’t stand around and chuckle to yourself all day, so you stumble down the steps and venture out into the camp.  


You recognise some people, and see others you know vaguely. It’s with a sickening jolt that you realise you might have slept with them but you don’t remember it because of whatever you were on at the time, and it’s confirmed when more than a handful of them give you appreciative or scornful looks.  


If it needed to be made any clearer why you need the comforting cloud in your brain, this would hammer it home.  


Your yearning for Dean increases. You want him so sharply it hurts, and it's not even a sexual need. You want his open arms to wrap you up and make you forget for a moment that you’re in the middle of an apocalypse. If you could just pretend that you’re still an angel, that Sam isn’t dead, that Dean still cares about you, you’d be happy.  


It’s a good thing your body hasn’t quite realised that something’s missing from its diet yet, because you need your wits about you to find a place by yourself. You can’t go back to your cabin; you’ll be reminded harshly of what usually happens there, which will only force you into a deeper spiral.  


_”I loved you, you bastard! And now you’re throwing us to the wolves?”_  


_“That old line again? Don’t fuckin’ start, Cas!”_

You hide around the back of someone else’s instead. Your back hits the wood with a thud, and you slowly slide down to crouch on the ground, your head in your hands. Your breath comes in quick, short gasps as you try to get it under control. Tears sting in your eyes. How long has it been since you last cried? You don’t know. Everything should be muted by some form of intoxication, but it’s not. You _have_ to feel this; there’s no two ways about it. The strength of it hits you like a train.  


You wish that you could pray, but you can’t summon the energy to press your hands together in front of your nose and murmur words that will be empty of all feeling. It won’t make you feel better one bit, so why bother?  


Footsteps are heading your way. They stop by you; the sound of nervous shuffling makes it clear that it’s Chuck. He’s perhaps the one person who has stayed by you throughout this whole business. Not even Dean can claim that.  


“Cas?” he asks. “You okay? Wait, no, stupid question, you’re clearly not okay. Um. Bad high?”  


“I wish.” You raise your head so you can knock it against the wall. You laugh again, and you hate the bitter sound of it. “I don’t have anything left, Chuck.”  


“Oh.” There’s confusion, relief and worry in his voice. There’s also a definite question on his tongue, but he doesn’t ask it.  


“It’s not why I’m… in this state,” you add, gesturing at yourself. You sniff pathetically, rolling your neck to turn your head away so you can stare at the wire fence opposite. Then you frown, shake your head, and backtrack. “No, it is. But it’s just making me feel things I don’t normally feel.”  


_”You’re avoiding the question.”_  


_“Well, you’re pretty fuckin’ adamant about it already, I don’t see how I can change your mind.”_

Chuck moves around so he can squat awkwardly next to you. “Like what?”  


“Like how much I miss him.”  


“Oh.”  


Chuck seems to like that word. It’s a good word, you think. You can get a lot across in an ‘oh’: disappointment, sadness, happiness, pleasure.  


You close your eyes, pained. “It shouldn’t be like this. There was a much more positive outcome for everyone.”  


“Cas,” Chuck says.  


“Sam should be alive, for starters. Dean would be whole if he was.”  


 _”Cas,”_ he insists.  


You sigh. “What?”  


“You need to stop wallowing, buddy.” Chuck stands, offering you a hand. “Let’s go get you cleaned up. We can work through it together, okay? You’re not gonna be alone.”  


Despite everything, Chuck still has belief. That is enough to make you feel enough motivation to let him pull you up.

* * *

_”So you’re not going to deny it?” you whispered. You swallowed, your throat dry. A hot mixture of anger and upset rose in your throat, making your fingers curl into fists at your sides. “You’re going to kill us?”_  


_Dean’s face remained impassive. He turned away, shrugging, like you’d asked him what he thought the weather would be like tomorrow. “It’s gonna be a trap. I know it. Someone’s gotta take the heat while I put a bullet in Lucifer’s brain.”  
_

_“And so you will send us to our deaths while you do it. How very noble of you,” you said scornfully. “What about everything we’ve been through, Dean? Everything we’ve accomplished?”  
_

_He didn’t reply. It only served to make you more furious, the burn in your veins fanning the fire. In a move that evidently caught him off guard, you seized the front of his jacket by the lapels and pulled him back around, pushing into his space.  
_

_His expression was a mask, but his eyes were expressive. You could see a glimmer of pain in them, lingering far in the back. It fuelled you, spurred you on to do what you wanted to.  
_

_You crushed your lips to his, swallowing his surprised grunt. You kissed harshly, not caring one bit whether he wanted it or not. Chances were, he could push you off anyway if he didn't. You bit his lip and then swiped your tongue across the spot to soothe the pain, only to do it all over again. You tasted blood.  
_

_Dean’s hands gripped your waist, forcing you back until you were pressed against the wall. Instead of gladly allowing him to take control of the kiss like you usually did, you fought him, a low growl in your throat as you battled. You needed to get the rise out of him; maybe you could make him see that there was another way if you brought the old Dean back.  
_

_As his tongue slid alongside yours, you almost thought you’d done it. There was passion, not aggression, behind his actions. The hands that roamed weren’t because of the drive of lust, but for the need to map you out properly, commit your body to memory. You welcomed it, returned it, revelled in it.  
_

_With an admittedly gross sucking sound, Dean jerked his mouth away from yours. His cheeks were flushed and he was breathing heavily. You made to attach your lips to his neck while he sucked in oxygen, but his palms moved to your shoulders, pinning you in place.  
_

_When he spoke, his voice was soft, as broken as the man himself. “Don’t, Cas.”_

* * *

Your heaven isn’t an apple pie life with Dean. It’s not with the two of you married, living in a house with two-point-five kids and a dog. It’s not some kind of paradise in 2014, when two of you died, with the apocalypse raging outside of the little island of Camp Chitaqua.  


Instead, you’re at Bobby’s house. Sam and Dean sit on the couch bickering over movies that you know now but didn’t know then. Bobby’s bringing four beers through, offering you one even though you don’t drink.  


You? You perch beside Dean, the familiar weight of your trench coat around your shoulders. There’s no chance of receiving any kisses from Dean here, but that’s perfectly fine with you. You don’t need them as proof of his affection, even if it’s unrealised at the moment.  


“Shut up, ya idjits,” Bobby growls, shoving two beers between the Winchesters. “Just put one of ‘em on. We ain’t got all day.”  


Dean slumps back against the cushions, huffing as he opens his drink. “Fine. Put on your crappy movie, Sam, but don’t blame me if I start snorin’ halfway through.”  


“Jerk,” Sam throws over his shoulder from his new spot in front of the TV.  


“Bitch,” Dean calls back cheerfully.  


A tiny smile tugs on your lips. You lower your gaze to your lap, warmth filling your chest. These are the moments you missed the most in the end, the brotherly banter between Sam and Dean. You think that that’s what Dean missed the most, too.  


“Cas?”  


You look up briefly, finding Dean’s gentle eyes already watching you. “Yes?” you say.  


“You okay?”  


Your smile widens just the smallest bit. “I have never been better.”


End file.
